I sleep well, albeit not as long as I would have liked. Coming back to a cold bed was rather depressing at first, but I filled my hot-water bottle with hot-ish water (the metal is somewhat dangerous if you use hot hot water, even with a cover) and that got me settled.

Ah, if my shift wasn’t starting earlier, I could have slept another hour. Oh well.

Not that hungry, I just force myself to have a bit of toast and a cup of tea. Then I get ready, a little extra work required to freshen up my tired face, and I carefully braid up my hair. Between the regular practice and my talent for spirit magic seeming better the last month or so, it barely takes me half as long to do the braiding as it used to.

All dressed up and ready to go.

Rather than Len, another maid is here to take me to town. I don’t know her name, but I’ve seen her around the dormitory a few times, I think. Len seems to do bedchamber work, this maid cleaning the lounge.

As such, I am… put a little bit on the spot.

“So I get to the river and go right,” I mutter to myself, staring down at the cobblestone as if I’m hoping to see an arrow carved into it, pointing the way to Lottie’s house.

I got complacent, Len spoiling me with her competent sense of direction.

Taking the walk slow, I follow along the river’s edge. As we come to each street, I check if it looks familiar, and I rely on that feeling to go down Baker Street. Baker Street. The more I think it, the more right it sounds. What’s next? It’s, um, a close, or a cul-de-sac. Yes, Lottie’s house is halfway down a dead-end road.

Except, half the roads coming off this street are like that. The houses all looking the same in this part of town, we wander down a few wrong roads, relying on my ability to recognise her house (I can at least remember it’s number fourteen) to tell us that we’ve once again made a mistake. Well, that I’ve made a mistake.

It takes far longer than it should have to reach Lottie’s house… what I believe is Lottie’s house.

Not quite willing to dismiss the maid just yet, I knock on the door. My heart thumping, I listen out for the muffled footsteps, and worry that they sound… heavy.

The door opens. It’s not Lottie.

I bow my head, already saying, “Sorry,” to the young-ish man I’ve disturbed.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, something of a smile on his face, and a touch of pain, his hand shielding his eyes from the gentle mid-morning sunlight.

With a nervous laugh, I say, “I think I—”

“Oh, you’re not Ellie, are you?”

Stopped in the middle of speaking, my mouth stays open until I notice and close it. Then I gently nod. “I am?” I say, not entirely convinced of it.

He offers me a hand. “Greg, Greg Grocer,” he says.

And everything clicks into place, a flood of relief quickly leaving me a little giddy, my face probably flushed. “Lottie’s husband.”

“Aye, that’s me.”

My heart racing, it’s not often that I’m so embarrassed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say, falling into habit as I accept his offered hand.

He chortles, giving my hand a single good shake before letting go. “Lotte’s didn’t half sell you short.”

I’m not really sure what he means by that. It’s a compliment, I guess? “Speaking of, is she in?” I ask.

His smile turning wry, he nods. “She sent me down, said she can’t be seen looking like she is,” he says.

“Oh, um, well, I just….”

Saving me from my inability to come up with words, he steps aside and gestures me in. “Come on, I don’t bite,” he says before turning to face the stairs, cupping his hand. “Ellie’s here!”

A shout-shriek sort of sound comes back, quickly followed by quick, light footsteps. “Ellie!”

It’s not Lottie (again).

“Gwen!” I say, stepping inside and lowering myself to just the right height for a good hug from her. As always, she flies into me after barrelling down the stairs, nearly knocking me over, and all I can do is laugh. Once I give her a good squeeze, I let go and stand back up. Before I forget, I turn around to politely dismiss the maid, then return my focus to Gwen. “How are you?” I ask.

Greg chuckles as Gwen tugs me through to the lounge, incessantly babbling about her guising and all the sweets she got. He takes the armchair (which annoys me a little until I remember that it’s actually his), and I go on the couch, Gwen all over the place. She runs upstairs to get her costume and to the kitchen to get her pot of “sweets” and then back to her bedroom for a spooky cross-stitch she did with (her best friend) Shellie.

And oh my goodness, she was dressed up as a faerie princess. A dress made of loose bits of cloth (each cut to the shape of a leaf) stitched together, and a tiara that twinkles with glass gems, and a whittled wooden wand. The pièce de résistance, wings which are made from something like a metal coat hanger (that goes under the dress and sticks out the neck hole) for support, two prongs then jutting out with a sheer fabric attached to it, fluttering as she moves it back and forth.

I want to ask her to wear it for me, but that’s too indulgent, isn’t it? I’ll have to make do with her proudly showing it off.

And I can’t help but think that Lottie’s an incredible parent, isn’t she? This isn’t cutting eyeholes in a sheet and calling it a ghost costume. That tiara, I wonder how much it cost? I know she can sew, but I don’t know if she’s good at it—how many late hours did she spend working on that dress?

“So cute,” I say, tapping Gwen on the nose. She grins.

The two of us try one of her sweets (a dried apple slice), and then Lottie finally makes an appearance. I’m not the only one who had a late night, it seems, what cosmetics she has not quite as good at hiding that.

“How are you?” I ask her, trying not to smile too much.

She rolls her eyes, but answers me nonetheless. “Exhausted.”

I glance over at Greg (certain thoughts coming to me) and she picks up on that, clearing her throat as a flush creeps up her neck.

Before I can say anything (I promise, Lottie, I’m not so crude to say anything in front of a man or child), she turns to Gwen. “Why don’t you go get you-know-what.”

Gwen gasps, and then scampers off at such speed. I barely get a chance to blink before she’s back and holding something knitted—a scarf? She doesn’t so much hand it to me as push it into my abdomen, a good thing my bladder isn’t full.

“Happy birthday!” she shouts, painful with how close she is.

“Oh thank you,” I say. Taking a moment, I straighten out the scarf. It’s a pale pink and I quickly realise it matches the colour of my next dress. Not too long, it’ll sit nicely when I have my coat on, and it feels soft, warm. Bundling it all together, I give it a tight hug. “Thank you,” I say again, softly.

Still brimming with enthusiasm, Gwen tugs at my hand. “Did you see? I helped!”

“You did? Where?” I ask, unravelling the scarf once more and checking closely. I hadn’t noticed any bits that were different before.

She takes one end, lets go, then the other end. “Here,” she says and points.

I look and, yes, there’s my initials neatly cross-stitched. Not perfect (no doubt difficult for her to sew onto, different from what she’s used to), yet close enough. I can’t help but touch the stitches, run my finger over them.

“When is your birthday?” I ask, ready to send a letter home and ask for a pony.

“Jan’ry twelf,” she says, and frowns, and “corrects” herself. “Twelfth.”

I know she’s supposed to grow out of her little speech impediments, but I hope I can chat with her a lot more before she does. Anyway, I nod at her answer. “Would you rather a white, brown or black pony?”

Lottie clears her throat.

“For an embroidery,” I whisper to her. She looks back at me with a rather doubtful look.

Aware of herself, Gwen speaks very consciously. “Brown.”

I guess she doesn’t like it when she messes up pronunciation, which is fair enough. I’ll have to make do with all her other adorableness.

We chat a bit longer (mostly me and Gwen, some Lottie, not really Greg), have a spot of tea, and Gwen gives me another sweet. (“Try this one! It’s my favourite,” she says—a dried cherry.) I remind Lottie I have to get to work an hour earlier, but she knows, saying there’s still a bit of time. That’s handy because it gives me a bit of time to pop to the loo (freshening up, as the ladies say).

I was so worried on the walk into town that I didn’t pay much attention to anything but where I was going. Now, I give everything a proper look. It’s not exactly decorated, just the odd scarecrow-like thing beside doors, and around half of the houses have a lantern out—oil lamps, not carved from a pumpkin. I guess they were lit by a flame from the bonfire last night?

What I don’t notice is litter. But there isn’t really anything to litter here, is there? Beer cans, crisp packets, polystyrene containers—those don’t exist. From what Ellie knew, old city rubbish was, well, sewage. Thrown out windows, or left behind by horses (not a big deal here since horses aren’t so widely used).

Lottie, Gwen and I get to the café in good time regardless. We didn’t go past the bonfire, but I hope there’s time after work to.

Iris and her parents are in good spirits, whatever roughness they feel plastered over with enthusiasm (and maybe Terri’s makeup skills). Annie’s the first waitress to arrive, looking the same as always, and Len seems fine when she turns up. Millie cuts it close, barely changed and at attention when the first customers come. Even if I didn’t get a good look at her, it’s obvious she’s suffering, a bit of a sway when she walks, trays not held as steady, but she doesn’t make any mistakes that I notice. (The lunch break especially helps her recover.)

Busy worrying about her, I get through the day distracted from my own lingering fatigue. Well, I’m young, a good sleep tonight enough to fully recover.

Of course, when work finishes and we all go to get changed, it’s finally time for gossip. Iris doesn’t disappoint.

“So Millie, what were you up to last night?” she asks, bright and cheerful.

Millie shrinks, hiding behind her dress rather than putting it on. “Just with my family. Nothing interesting.”

Like sharks sniffing blood in the water, Len and Annie close in on her, and Annie asks, “Really? Nothing at all?”

Red enough to pop, Millie tucks her chin into her shoulder, avoiding all the smirks. “Well, my big sister….”

“Go on,” Len says.

Millie gulps. “She, um, likes to tease me, so she made me drink.”

Ah, I guess that’ll do it. Drinking laws here aren’t much different to Ellie’s UK, so it’s sixteen to drink, but younger is “okay” at the family’s discretion. Anyway, it’s nothing to make a deal of. I’m a bit reluctant to drink myself, but I have a small glass of wine at dinner with the family if they do too.

However, the story doesn’t end there as Annie asks, “Is that all?”

Millie couldn’t lie if her life depended on it, her face scrunching up. “It’s, um, she also made me sit next to the cousin I had a crush on when I was little.”

Oh dear. Well, I’m sure she’s hardly the only one who was sweet on a cousin. It’s embarrassing now, but I’m sure she’ll laugh about it in a few more years.

Except, we’re not done yet.

Iris, with a smile that could rot teeth, says, “And?”

As if giving up, Millie hangs her head. “We’re both girls.”

Okay, her big sister is probably never going to let that go.

“I was only seven, and she was so kind and brave and strong, and I said I would be her wife when we grow up,” Millie says, the words spilling freely.

If she was that young, it probably doesn’t mean anything. That said, I don’t really know how other sexualities fit into this world. I mean, the author never mentioned anything, so it should just be historical? Ellie knew a bit from literature, but not much specifically about Victorian times. It’s not something that has come up in my life either.

I think it’s not exactly life-ruining, but not exactly accepted. No marrying, and some of your family might cut contact, a chance you might lose your job, but you probably won’t get harassed or fear for your life. I might be wrong about that, though.

Personally, I’m accepting of atypical sexualities or relationships, probably influenced by Ellie and the times and culture she lived in.

All that aside, the other girls lightly tease Millie, but only a little, and it’s nothing to do with whether or not she is a lesbian. Good-natured teasing. “When’s the wedding?”

Poor Millie.